behind velvet cloth I saw your quail's eggs,
I saw your gentleman's relish too,
protruding as it was,
an Etonian slap to the face of the marmite jar which
it was reluctantly sat next to.

and although the relish would happily admit that
to sit next to marmite was certainly preferable
to finding oneself positioned next to Bovril or Cup-a-Soup,
it certainly was a far cry from the delicatessen counter
he was once accustomed to.

oh the delicatessen!
how the tear ducts performed with nostalgic aplomb
as memories of stuffed vine leaves and caramelised baby shallots
filtered back to the gentleman.

what he'd have given to be back there now,
to once again share the company of proper food,
of handmade chutneys and pickles,
not this common oafish tar.
this brutish black gunk.

'You may not have been factory made'
retorted Marmite,
'or contain E325,'
'but that isn't to say that your place on this shelf
is any more valid than mine.'

Mother said
you were to go back

to Mrs Clark’s house
for tea after school

and she would pick
you up later

after work
and so when

the bell went
for the end

of the school day
you went with Mrs Clark

and her daughter Helen
for tea and Mrs Clark

talked all the way
to her house

her words rough
as hewn stones

going over your head
to which you just nodded

or shook your head
and when you arrived

at the house
which smelt

of past dinners
and washing drying

and the baby’s nappies
she said

What would you like for tea?
Bread and butter

bread jam
bread and Bovril

or dripping?
and how about

a large mug of tea?
Helen said

I’m having bread and jam
and a mug of tea

why don’t you too?
you said

Yes that will be fine
and shyly sat in a chair

by the window
looking out

at the backyard
where washing hung

on a clothesline
and an old doll’s pram

sat rusting by a wall
and Helen came

and sat next to you
in her grey skirt

and off white blouse
and swung her legs

back and forth
under the chair

her white ankle socks
and black scuffed shoes

coming in
and going out  

of view
and she said

After tea
I’ll show you my dolls

and the doll’s house
my daddy made

out of orange boxes
and as Mrs Clark

made the tea
you sensed Helen’s small hand

run along your arm
which set alarm bells ringing

in your head
and a sweating in your palm.

"IT’S MY FRIEND!”

It’s Tilly’s first
football match.

She watches the ball
move amongst men

as if it had a life
of its own

and laughs at
the players chasing it.

At half time numb
fingers clasp a Bovril.

I ask her: “Well. . .
what do you make of it all?”

I see myself reflected
in her 3-year-old eyes.

She smiles and says”
“I like the way the grass is!”

“Oh. . !” I say
in my adult way.

She now
down on her belly

eyeballing the grass
at its own level.

Each blade
a green individual self.

“Daddy, how.  .  ?”
she enquires of me.

“. . .many blades of grass. . .”
“Eh, yeah. . ?” I encourage her.

“. . .are there
in a football pitch?”

I hazard a guess
“Oh, two million and. . .2!”

She likes
the exactness of the fact.

Happy with her
Daddy’s answer.

Trusts he’s right
down to the very last two.

“I like grass!”
she announces.

“It’s my friend!”
she smiles.